Red Dawn Rising
by DasCheesenborgir
Summary: Cactus - "A succulent plant with a thick, fleshy stem that typically bears spines, lacks leaves, and has brilliantly colored flowers." Oxford Dictionary.


**Every once in a while, a moment of ultimate derp comes over us all. Lemme just start by saying that, despite my enduring, courageous, and remarkable faith in the Emprah, I'm no exception. :P**

**A small number of you have requested that I continue with 'Between Two Worlds'… well, your wish is half granted. Well, more like an eighth. Or an eighth of a half. That's a sixteenth for those of you not as skilled with fractions. **

**Your righteous fury may vary. **

**0-0-0**

His morning prayer finished without the usual fervor or searing rush of nostalgia today; perhaps he was getting better after all.

_Change is perhaps the most difficult battle any warrior will fight- your foe will appear to be friend, your truths lies; but remember, Brothers, the Changer of Ways is elusive, and manipulative by nature, not an enemy to be taken lightly. Remain vigilant and true to the Emperor, and He shall light the way. _

Mortis opened his eyes, looking at the double-headed eagle emblazoned upon the battered leather cover of the prayer book- the metal was worn and rusted but the golden hue lingered, like glories long past. This world was no place for it.

_Piss on this. _

He blew a hot, frustrated breath out of his lips, hissing through the frowning grill of his helmet as he stood. All this brooding and moping always managed to catch him in the worst of moods, but there wasn't much that could stop it; the moment a single doubt, the faintest whiff of sweet nostalgia slipped past the dam he had tried to erect it all came back in an unstoppable tide.

It was no way for an Astartes to act.

He strode across the carved stone floor of the Spartan lodgings Isran had kindly set aside for him, towards the small collection of books neatly filed away on an aging shelf.

Reading, as he had more recently discovered, was an acceptable way to pass his time now that there were far less pressing matters to attend to; Isran assured him that the vampire situation was fully under control. As good news as it was that the Dawnguard could take up the mantle of hunting the beasts, it, of course, meant there was a very small demand for his talents.

It was an odd feeling, having such a large portion of his time now dedicated to… really, nothing productive. Normally he would confine himself to his quarters in such times and meditate until the next battle, leaving only for scheduled meals or training sessions, but such instances had already been few and far between in the past. For all intents and purposes though, he had no idea when the next 'battle' would be. Ulfric had assured him that a crusade against the Thalmor was years, possibly even decades away. What had he said again?

_Enjoy the peace while it lasts._

Peace. He scoffed at the concept- there was no such thing. In the grim darkness of reality there was only war, and the brief moments of reprieve that separated each bloody battle.

But what if he had been wrong all this time? There was no doubt that this planet had been relatively unscathed by the ravages of war, still young and idealistic; what would happen when there was no war left to fight?

There he went again, asking foolish questions that had no answer.

He found Paarthurnax coming to mind at that thought- the old dragon loved questions. Mostly questions about him, many of which he ended up answering just to get the bastard to shut up. Oh, but he never did, it was always one after another, and almost always culminated in some pointless philosophical debate.

He chuckled despite himself at the memory of one particularly odd conversation he had held.

_I… do not understand. So this "centurion," that you speak of is like… a "space marine" inside of a "space marine"? _

Oh yes, that one took some explaining. Really, the whole concept of super-heavy bipedal suits seemed to cause nothing but confusion for Paarthurnax, which resulted in a very long and uncomfortably drawn-out debate over the apparent differences between a noble Grey Knight piloting a venerated Dreadknight and a cowardly xenos hiding in a heretical Crisis battlesuit.

He had been practically seething with rage at the time at the dragon's ignorance, but upon reflection it was almost… comical. Amusing, seeing such an old and wise being pestering him with questions like an eager schoolchild.

It had been several months since he had last seen him, after the defeat of Alduin- he wondered how he was faring now.

Maybe the crazy fool went soaring off into space, in search of the vast 'wonders' Mortis had imparted to him; he had tried to explain the concept of vacuum and gravitational pull, but to little avail. He didn't know why, but the ridiculous image of Paarthurnax wildly flapping his wings attempting to breach the atmosphere brought out a hearty chuckle. It was so… human, reaching out to grasp for the unknown, trying harder and harder the more it eluded them.

He hadn't quite realized it until then, but he had been standing listlessly in front of the bookshelf for a decent few minutes, completely lost in thought.

What a philosopher he was turning out to be. Paarthurnax would be proud.

He wordlessly scanned through the dusty tomes, a mental checklist pushing aside the thoughts that cluttered his mind. Historical accounts, battle analyses, biographies of great generals- Tamriel's history was vast and rich, and though still young in its development, it had seen its fair share of war.

Mortis grimaced as he realized he was getting closer and closer to the bottom of the shelf- maybe only a week later and he would have exhausted every one in the paltry collection he managed to amass. Considering the technology level of the planet and how they had yet to develop an efficient method for the mass production and replication of text, it was no surprise that books- especially the intelligently-written ones- could be difficult to find.

He supposed he could always try the College of Winterhold, but he never did feel quite right in the midst of… what did they call them here? Mages.

_Battle of Sancre Tor_. The book spine was well-worn but the large, stylized letters were easy enough to make out. Just as he slid it out, the satisfying crackle of parchment following as the pages within rustled, he noticed something rather peculiar out of the corner of his eye. Tucked neatly between two volumes of _A Brief History of the Empire _was an unlabelled book bound in bright red leather. Curious. He never recalled seeing such a thing before, since it surely would have caught his attention…

The _Battle of Sancre Tor _slid back into its rightful place, and out came the mysterious red tome.

He gripped it in his armored gauntlets, running a hand over the smooth crimson cover. He noted a slip of coloured paper sticking out from the pages- a bookmark? Perhaps when he had taken the book somebody had been in the middle of reading it? As he turned it around to inspect the back, however, a small slip of parchment slipped out from between the pages.

His left hand shot out and plucked it from the air as it fluttered down, taking a moment to unfold it. His brows furrowed in suspicion as he saw the bold and neatly written words etched in fresh black ink:

_"For your reading enjoyment." _

Beneath the cryptic message, the unknown author had scrawled an odd sigil that vaguely resembled a smiling face.

What sorcery was this? Clearly somebody had intentionally left the book in his room… but how had they gotten in? And without being detected by him in addition to that?

There was something rotten afoot- he could feel it. He stared down at the book in his hands, suddenly very wary of its contents. It could very well have been an ancient artifact of Chaos; he had encountered several before, had seen entire colonies overrun because of the daemonic whisperings of an infernal, heretical text. He should inform Isran of this as soon as possible.

But there was something that held his attention, the sheer queerness of the situation compelling him to at least skim over a page. It was risky, but…

He halted for a moment, meditating and steeling himself mentally for the maddening psychic assaults of daemons and then-

He inched the book open, old papers stained with water parting way to the page marked by the crude bookmark.

**0-0-0 **

_-the Templar's gauntleted hand stroked softly through my silky black hair, his other holding a damp cloth that he gently dabbed at the small gash on my creamy forehead with. I shuddered at his touch, and disturbingly enough, not out of fear._

_ My breathing grew heavier as he released me, stashing away the cloth on his belt and reached up to remove the cold, steel helm from his face. _

_ The bindings around my hands felt tighter than ever- what was he waiting for? Was she not a witch, an abomination to be hunted down and slaughtered? What was he doing? _

_ The answer never came as he lifted the cruel and obscuring helmet off of his head, a mop of golden hair coming loose and almost gleaming in the moonlight. His ice blue eyes froze me to place, a direct contrast to the emerald orbs that no doubt burned with passion in my own; my heartbeat quickened and intensified as he leaned in close, his strong, but soft lips closing over- _

**0-0-0 **

He growled as he violently snapped the book shut, a satisfying crack of leather echoing throughout sun-tinged air at the sudden movement.

He glared down at the note that had accompanied the 'gift', the playful swirls of text mocking him, the infernal smiling face at the bottom cackling with juvenile laughter. It didn't take long to guess who had 'misplaced' the book- how Serana had managed to sneak into his room eluded him, but he certainly wouldn't put the concept of pulling petty pranks past her.

He glanced down at the book in his hands in disgust, feeling dirtied in both body and spirit by its mere presence. There was, of course, only one possible course of action to take with such filthy literature.

The keys were pulled from their perch with a jingle as Mortis began to stride purposefully toward the door of his room, the red book clasped firmly in his left hand.

**0-0-0 **

The halls outside his secluded lodgings were empty as usual, soft rays of white light filtering in through the windows, the only sound to be heard the damned chirping of those infernal morning bir-

"Ah! Damn it!"

Mortis' illusion of his usual, _almost _ideal morning routine (he was just getting used to those birds as well) was rudely shattered as he felt the slightest of weights pushing against his armored back. He turned in time to see Valerica tumbling to the ground in a cursing heap, a fluorescent rainbow of petals and spilling out of the bundle she had clutched to her chest. She hastily pulled her hood back over her head, barely acknowledging Mortis with a stammered apology between breathless mutterings to herself as she scrambled to stuff the loose flowers back into the bag.

He raised an eyebrow behind his helm, the peculiarity of the situation boggling him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," she spat out before straightening her collar and dashing down the hallway in a flash, ducking around the corner before Mortis could even comprehend what had just happened.

Normally he would have been suspicious and chased after her immediately, but the woman had made regular enough visits to the Fort without supervision for him to get the impression that she posed no direct threat. That did little, however, to answer the questions now swimming in his mind.

What an odd start to a day.

**0-0-0 **

It wasn't much longer before fate decided to throw yet another eccentricity at him; he had to admit, this was becoming somewhat tiring.

Normally he would have appreciated the presence of Isran, for it wasn't difficult to see eye-to-eye with the aged veteran vampire hunter (in spite of the sizable height difference, of course). As he saw the man pacing about in the hallway however, nervously scratching at his beard (notably more unkempt than usual…), he could tell something was off.

"Dragonborn!"

Mortis bristled at how the Dawnguard leader addressed him, still not entirely comfortable with the title. Today though, he was more unsettled by Isran's unease; his right eyebrow was twitching irregularly and more relief than usual washed over his face as Mortis approached. The man was stubborn and level-headed, so it must have taken something very grave to put him into such a jittery state.

"What is the matter, Isran?"

"Listen y- you have to help me, but you _cannot _let anybody else know about this."

Mortis suddenly had a sinking feeling that perhaps he should not have allowed Valerica to run off so easily. He was glad that his helmet hid his grimace- he would surely never hear the end of this from him now.

"It's about Valerica, isn't it?"

"W-wh-… how do you know of that? Who have you been talking to?" Caught off guard by Isran's outburst, Mortis remained in dumbfounded silence as the Redguard launched into a rant.

"Oh damn it, of course it was Serana… always knew I couldn't trust her. Gah! By the gods, what was I-"

He halted abruptly as he stared at the book in Mortis' hands, the Black Templar now feeling a very rare wave of uneasiness flowing through him.

Something was very wrong. Before he could speak up again however, Isran asked the first thing that made sense since Mortis had run into him.

"Where did you find that?"

"In my room. Somebody must have misplaced it," he stated coolly, gauging Isran for a reaction; if anything was wrong, any trace of corruption present in the Fort, it doubtlessly had something to do with one of its two vampire guests. For all he knew, they could easily be listening in on the conversation he was currently holding, and so the more they believed he wasn't onto them yet, the better.

"D… did you… open it?"

"Yes."

Isran's face almost paled by fifty shades at that, before he snatched out for the book to no avail- now Mortis' suspicion was beginning to peak. So the book had some importance after all- what if Isran had already been corrupted? Possessed?

"Give that to me!"

"Why?"

"Because it's-"

He stopped himself, seemingly pondering his next words before he resumed his rambling, his eyes catching a queer glint. He looked around cautiously before leaning in close to Mortis, his whisper low and raspy.

"It's an evil, ancient tome- disguised as an innocent and normal book. Somebody sent it to me, a note attached and warning of its evil properties- they tried to burn it before, but to no avail."

"And so you investigated it, trying to find a way to destroy it," Mortis concluded. Now it made sense- all of these oddities he was encountering, the strangeness and overall… wrongness he felt that morning- it must have stemmed from the tome's influence.

"Exactly! I was close, very close to uncovering its secrets, and I was afraid somebody had managed to steal it away- that's why I needed you to find it for me. But it seems as though you've already done that."

Seemingly satisfied with his explanation, Isran held out his hand expectantly. What if it was a trick? Even if Isran wasn't fully corrupted or possessed, daemons were elusive and patient beings, able to play the mental game of chess with a host for as long as they needed, whittling down their defenses before swiftly dealing the final blow and taking them over. But at the same time, it was clear that Isran was indeed close to finding the secret to destroying the tome for good- Mortis wasn't sure if he himself could do the same, and it might even be more risky to do so.

After a tense minute of mulling over his options, Mortis hesitantly pressed the book into Isran's hand. The man calmed almost immediately, recomposing himself remarkably fast.

"Ah, thank you. Now then, I believe Gunmar said wanted to have a word with you; you'd better not keep him waiting."

"Very well then."

Mortis felt some relief washing over himself too, the thumping of his twin heartbeats gradually slowing to a normal pace again. Clearly, Isran had simply been stressed- there was no danger, at least not yet, and the book would surely be destroyed before any corruption could take hold.

It was only after he had marched halfway down the dimly lit corridor before realization came crashing down upon him.

Serana- he had forgotten to tell Isran about her! He whipped around, but Isran was already nowhere to be seen.

_Oh by the Warp… _

He cursed himself for letting his guard down so easily, and now for being so forgetful all of a sudden. She had been the one who left the tome in his room in the first place- perhaps as a trap, hoping the daemon within would possess him and leave the entire Fort vulnerable to attack!

_"Isran!" _

His throat felt sore as he yelled, for it had been quite some time since he last had spoken at such volumes. When he heard no response, he instantly began to fear the worst, thundering down the hallway towards Isran's quarters.

He stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway leading into the man's room, eyes darting around the bare stone walls and the noting the state of disarray it was in- Isran was nowhere to be seen.

**0-0-0 **

The corruption must have festered deeper than he had feared- as he stepped into the dining hall of the fort, hearts pounding with fury and eager to inform the faithful troops of the disappearance of their courageous leader, he was met with utter pandemonium.

Fully armored soldiers marched back and forth with bundles of… something (no doubt some obscene sigils of daemonic worship) that they then gleefully cast around the room, glittering red bronze chains of the odd symbols strung across ceilings, wrapped around pillars like corpses put on a grotesque display.

_By the Emperor… _

His hand twitched as he began to advance towards the nearest and most vulnerable target- a young blonde Nord tucked away in the corner. What was his name again? He was certain he had seen him before…

"Dragonborn! Oh, thank goodness you're here."

His arm froze just before he lifted it up in preparation to strike him down- perhaps not all were corrupted yet? Certainly the young man, Agmaer as he now began to recall, was not partaking in the same heretical activities that the other cultists were- perhaps he could yet be saved?

"L-listen… I don't know if you remember me at all but- ah Gods, that's no way to start this. Look, I realize you likely don't even know me, but I need your help."

Ah yes, now he remembered. Striding up the steps of the shambling fort for the first time, the aspiring Dawnguard soldier nervously twiddling his thumbs beside him… it seemed as though his will was stronger than Mortis had thought. For all he knew, the young Nord was the last faithful member of the Dawnguard left- he would not abandon him to the beasts of Chaos.

"By the Immortal God Emperor of Mankind, I swear to you Agmaer, I shall do everything in my power to aid you."

"Oh… well… great then! Right, so… just listen close to what I have to say, alright?"

He lowered his voice, leaning closer to Mortis.

"And please, do _not _involve anyone else in this- they can't know!"

So the boy had a plan as well. Mortis felt his respect for him growing by the moment.

"I'm listening."

**0-0-0 **

Mortis had to admit, this was a rather needlessly convoluted plan but… he had promised he would see Agmaer through this, and he would not go back on his word. The cultists paid him little attention, sliding past him with only brief acknowledgement- clearly they were unaware that he had remained pure, and he had no intention of casting aside this advantage by lashing out at them.

He shuddered as he strode into the main foyer, the enslaved soldiers blindly hauling components of some contraption, or perhaps fragments of a daemonic artifact to the sigil of the sun in the middle. Rage simmered in his blood, threatening to blow his cover as he witnessed the wholesale defilement of everything the Dawnguard stood for- the culprits of this would pay dearly.

_Serana _would pay dearly. But maybe she wasn't actually responsible for it? What if somebody else had been responsible for the note?

_Don't be ridiculous, _he chided himself. Of course it had been her- the taunting note she had left behind as a final insult was all the confirmation he needed, her way of mocking him for being so trusting of her. In the end, it turned out she was no different than any other heretic; what a fool he had been to believe otherwise.

And yet, there was still a twinge of regret mixed in with the stewing anger and reproach; a small spark that lingered on what could have been, perhaps if he had been more accepting of her friendly approaches-

No. Of course not. A Black Templar did not exist for friendship, and lived only for his duty to humanity.

_Enough lollygagging. _

He quickly ducked out of the foyer, the package Agmaer insisted he deliver tucked neatly under one arm.

Brushing past a pair of heretics conversing amongst themselves and stepping into the troll pen area, he scanned his eyes over the torch-lit, jagged stone walls and then…

There she was.

Mortis was not so sure of Agmaer's judgement, but the Nord had been adamant that this was a necessary phase of his plan; he had refused to tell him what was inside the package, only that he deliver it to an elf by the name of Beleval. He had never seen her before, but then again, he had not seen many elves in the Dawnguard anyways and Agmaer was fairly certain of her location; so he was willing to bet that the short-haired woman chatting with Florentius (if such a thing as 'chatting' was even possible with the priest) was the intended target.

Mortis stood by awkwardly as the two, engaged in their conversation, did not notice him.

"Have you ever seen a cactus before? I doubt you have, neither have I; but Arkay loves cactus. He has a whole farm of them, he tells me, and that they make for the most remarkable weapons for putting down undead when infused with lightning…"

Perhaps he had managed to ward off the daemons? Mortis wouldn't have been surprised to be honest, the man was already madder than a Khorne Berzeker. Otherwise, if his ramblings were to be believed, then having an Aedroth's aid likely gave him an edge… but it was difficult to tell if he even realized the woman before him was possibly enthralled- after all, he did not pay heed to the masses of other heretics surrounding him.

Agmaer may not have been the most courageous or physically strong in the order, but Mortis was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt when it came to his cleverness. With that in mind, he lightly tapped the elf on her armored shoulder and cleared his throat.

"Beleval?"

An instinct in the back of Mortis' mind had his free hand reaching for a weapon that was not present by his waist as he saw the woman's pointed ears twitch in response; it always managed to remind of the Eldar.

He thrust the package forward, holding it out as she stared at the box, hastily wrapped in tattered paper quizzically.

"I was told to deliver this to you."

He waited expectantly before she cautiously accepted the parcel and hesitantly responded.

"I… thank you?"

He stood still, waiting for something to happen; what was the point of this? Was this perhaps a test to see if she had remained uncorrupted?

Another tense few seconds passed, and she continued to stare blankly back at him- Florentius continued his senseless rambling, but by now he had drawn the attention of several nearby cultists.

_Damn. _They were onto him, and if the package was indeed meant to be a test- it was clear Beleval had failed it. Another lost to the Ruinous Powers. He held no love for the xenos, but… it was a bitter moment regardless.

He swiftly pivoted around and marched briskly away from prying eyes, lest they discover him for what he was.

**0-0-0 **

He needed no words to inform Agmaer of the bad news, and it seemed as though he already knew what the answer would be as he anxiously watched Mortis return.

"I'm sorry," Mortis murmured with as much sympathy he could muster. He knew not the elf's significance to the boy, but if he was willing to put his life in danger to make sure she was safe…

"What? Oh Divines, no… wh- what did she say?"

He should spare him the details, he thought; the news was already heavy and hard to stomach, and there was no telling what the boy might do in his recklessness. But, despite his better judgement, he decided that Agmaer deserved to know what had become of his friend.

"Nothing. She said nothing."

"Oh by the Gods… this is completely wrong! No, no- I have to fix this-"

"It's too late." But he had already stopped listening, rambling on incoherently before dashing off, his mind no doubt taken by the foul machinations of the Warp. Another promise broken.

He cursed, bitter disappointment and the slightest pang of sorrow filling his chest, but soon giving way to steely determination. There was yet some time left- if he hunted down the source of the corruption before it rooted itself too deeply, there was a chance the Dawnguard could still be saved.

But to do that, he needed to find Isran first- it wouldn't have been his first choice, but as far as he knew, there very well was only one person left in the fort that he could trust.

**0-0-0 **

_"Ready to unleash eleven buckets of hell!" _

With a gleeful cackle, Florentius tipped over the entire wooden bench and sent- if his arithmetic was to be believed- eleven wooden buckets filled to the brim with foaming, bubbling liquid, flooding the troll pen with soapy bathwater.

The furry creatures, still hunched over the dry bones of an old meal, roared with surprise as the fluid splashed over them in a cascade of bubbles. An odd way of washing the creatures, but certainly a wise one considering their generally less than friendly reactions to being cleaned.

"Haha! Yes! Fear the mighty Bathblade of Arkay you filthy beasts!"

Well, at least there was no doubt about the priest's faith anymore; how the converted did not notice this eluded Mortis, but he was not about to complain about the advantage of that.

"Have you seen Isran?" Throughout his very few and rare conversations with the madman, Mortis had learned that the easiest and logical manner of getting information out of him was by being as direct as possible- even then, it could take up to hours before Florentius got to the point.

"Hm? Oh yes, of course I did- just this morning in, fact."

"It's still morning."

"Well, close enough. Arkay prefers 'noon' around this time of day..."

Mortis felt the urge to smack himself in the head- there was nobody to blame but himself now. The moment 'Arkay' was brought into the conversation, any hope of concluding it in a timely manner was practically out of the question. Unfortunately, time was not particularly abundant for him, but at the very least, fate, for the time being, seemed to be on his side.

"…which is, you must admit, a rather odd time to go out for a trip to Riften with a vampire, you know, considering the whole-"

"Wait, what vampire?"

"Why, Serana of course. Or was it Valerica? Bah, I can never remember which is which… the younger one, the one that used to-"

"You said they were heading for Riften?"

If Florentius was bothered by Mortis' constant interruptions, he did not show it.

"Yes. I believe she said something along the lines of… what was it? Procuring more appropriate attire for the eveni-"

He barely finished his sentence before Mortis dashed past him, nearly clocking him in the side of the head with the silver skull that protruded from his left pauldron.

**0-0-0 **

He had already felt the dread hanging over him as he approached Riften's unguarded, rotting wooden gates- his worst fears were confirmed as he yanked them open and found himself in an all-too- familiar scene.

Beggars in rags, ordinary citizens, even _children _flooded the streets, howling and jabbering in their madness as they slung armfuls of decapitated flower heads and intestinal bundles of bronze, daemonic sigils chained together across over the desecrated stone road.

_What have you done, heretic? _

Only the guardsmen seemed unaffected, idly standing by as if nothing was happening. If he had to guess, he would say that Serana had likely put them all under her spell- he always knew she was a powerful magician, but never imagined she would be capable of something on this scale. Yet another way in how she played him for a fool.

He fingered the steel shortsword strapped to his thigh cautiously (he had no time to retrieve his standard gear from his quarters- it would have to do) as he waded through the crowds of civilians turned cultists towards the nearest pair of guards.

"…so Balgruuf, totally _drunk off his ass_ just jumps onto the table, _kicks_ Igmund's cup of wine right off and starts _dancing_! His housecarl's just freaking out, but no sir, on he goes, starts sing-"

"Excuse me guardsman."

The man in question, face concealed by the typical leather helmet that consisted of his uniform let out an exaggerated sigh before responding.

"No sir, I haven't seen your sweetroll, I haven't seen anyone who stole it, and for the love of Mara, I have never taken any goddamn arrows in the knee! Now if that will be all-"

Mortis could not see the guard's expression behind his helmet, but he could imagine that he was likely much paler than he had been just moments ago.

"O-oh! Dragonborn! I-I didn't realize it was you… please sir, do forgive me, I would never-"

The Black Templar cut him off with a wave of his hand, eager to get to the point.

"Have you seen a hooded woman by any chance? Likely with a man in tow?" It was unlikely he would know, but it was at least worth a try. The guard's reaction was less than amused, and his nearby companion glanced at him nervously, slowly inching away.

"Oh for the love of- please don't do this to me. Do you _see_ how many people are out there?"

Quite a few if the slogging pace he had wormed through the crowd with was any indication. Mortis tried again, but he had never been a people person, and that tended not to mix very well with an exhausted guardsman who was on patrol too many hours each day.

"Come now, they couldn't have been that difficult to spot."

"Well gee, maybe I did see who you're looking for, but my memory's kinda foggy especially considering how you haven't exactly elaborated much on how they look?"

Great. Barely a few seconds had passed and he was already antagonizing the overworked guard. For the briefest of moments he half expected Serana to pipe up from behind him as she would usually do in such situations and resolve the matter almost immediately.

_Damn it, this isn't getting me anywhere. _

Mortis sighed, suppressing his frustration- it wasn't as though he could lay any blame on the guard, he was likely under the same spell his comrades were and would never have even seen Serana if she had kicked him in the ass.

"Never mind then, I will make do on my own. I… appreciate your cooperation, guardsman." That seemed to be enough to wind him down, but it certainly didn't last very long.

"Oh, good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should probably-"

_"JENKIIIIIIINS!" _

**0-0-0**

He was running out of time- a whole hour of searching through the city, checking the inns, the local watering hole, the market, the keep- nothing. They had likely already left…

He clamped down on his thoughts quickly; he had to remain vigilant.

He surveyed the chaotic streets of the waterfront town from his position, scanning his eyes over grotesquely decorated shacks, the moist floorboards by the market centre, the soft stone of the Temple of Mara, bathed in warm candlelight-

"Dragonborn!"

He pivoted around to see a robed priest shouldering his way through the crowd, his dark-skinned face beneath his hood contorted with strain as he ducked between groups of cultists.

Another survivor- good. He would no doubt know of where his target was hiding.

Maramal hunched over, panting heavily as he finally reached Mortis in the secluded and dank alleyway he had taken refuge in, something metallic clutched in his hands.

"By the Divines, how fortunate of me- I had no idea how I was to find a courier on a momentous holiday such as this!"

The Astartes' twin hearts skipped a beat.

"…holiday?"

"Why, yes, of course! Don't tell me you don't know what Heart's Day is…"

_Heart's Day… _

He looked back to the 'cultists' now, singing and dancing in the streets, flower petals fluttering in the cool lakeside air as they were tossed up in droves. He caught a young couple out of the corner of his eye, both of their cheeks flushed bright red as they stumbled off in search of a more private area.

_Ah, feth. _

"…you don't, do you?"

"What do you think?" Growled Mortis irritably.

"Well-"

"Don't answer that," he needlessly snapped.

_A holiday. All this damned fuss over a holiday. _

And yet, despite the very much humiliating situation, he felt a chuckle rising in his throat. The dam that always held his emotions in check in times of crisis suddenly burst, and his chuckle rose to a roar of hysterical laughter that boomed out his vox caster.

_Oh, dear Battle Brothers. If only you could see me now. _

After standing by awkwardly for the better part of a minute, Maramal cleared his throat.

"Yes… well, I'm glad everything turned out fine, but I was told to give this to you…"

He stifled a giggle as memories of the 'package' Agmaer had him deliver came to mind, but a rather undignified snort wormed past the lid he tried to slam down. Oh Emperor, what in the Warp was happening to him? Giggling like a damned schoolchild…

With a clink and jangle of metal, Maramal deposited a tangled amulet into his armor clad hands, a crumpled note attached to it.

"Blessings of Mara upon you," said the priest warmly as he left as quickly as he had arrived- which to say was not very quickly at all if one took into account the thick crowds he was forced to wade through.

He unfolded the note, smoothing out the wrinkles and already half-knowing who had sent it.

_I would've told you about the holiday earlier, but I didn't want to spoil the surprise. Happy Heart's Day!_

_P.S. You're supposed to wear the amulet, you know, around your neck- I understand that might be a bit difficult to comprehend for a man who doesn't go anywhere without his battle armor. _

Another one of those damned smiley faces adorned the bottom, hastily scrawled on as though it were an afterthought.

Irritatingly enough, he found the edges of his mouth twitching in reflection.

**0-0-0**

It was almost evening when he returned to the Fort, the sky painted in a watery strawberry pink as the sun dipped over the horizon.

Mortis had taken the lengthy walk back to compose and calm himself from his outburst, and by the time he cracked open the wooden gates to stride into the bustling foyer, he was back to his usual, grumpy self. Which was likely why everyone that came within a meter of him hastily zipped away as he briskly marched through the crowd.

The holy light that usually shone down upon the foyer had been dimmed, and instead some contraption in the centre of the room (the one he had previously mistaken for an artifact of Chaos- to be honest, he wasn't far off) cast refracted rays of sickening green light over the walls.

Probably Sorine's work- it shared the same blocky metallic golden machinery with the Dwemer constructs Mortis had seen too many times for his liking. If he had to guess, it was most likely that… what had she called it again? Disco Garrot? Diskow Garrow?

He would have to hold a 'conference' with Isran about maintaining proper conduct within the fortress the following day; how he had managed to organize and find the material to properly celebrate a triviality such as holiday boggled Mortis, but he would make certain that that would no longer be a concern the next year.

Or maybe it wouldn't even have to wait that long; there, nervously pacing around off in a corner was none other than the leader of the Dawnguard himself, dressed in possibly the most ridiculous getup Mortis had ever seen.

It wouldn't have been as bad if not for the damn near fluorescent scarlet collar poking out from the black tailcoat and the equally bright red rose he had tucked in a chest pocket. He was twitchy again, just like he had been in the morning- something Mortis may or may not have intentionally used against the man.

"I trust that your shopping trip was productive then?"

A vase of flowers unceremoniously clattered to the floor as Isran whipped around and accidentally knocked it to the floor.

As far as Mortis was concerned though, the bastard deserved every second that a few passer-bys stared at him for.

"Oh, for the love of- look, whatever it is you need to say, can it wait until tomorrow? I've a… very important meeting to attend tonight."

"Really? Never pegged you for one who tended to dress for occasions."

That elicited a grumble from him in return.

"Yes, well, your friend decided otherwise."

Friend- not a 'resource', not an 'asset', not a 'heretic' or 'witch'. He stopped himself there- that was an issue he could brood over another time, maybe the next morning.

And damn was he tired; he must have been getting soft with the comfortable and lazy routine he had allowed himself to lapse into. The rings under Isran's worn eyes suggested he was as well, and so Mortis decided that it would probably be best to leave him alone for the night.

"Fine then," he concluded. "You have your 'meeting' then. If anyone requests my presence, you may inform them that I have retired to my quarters for the night."

Maybe he'd try to catch some actual sleep for once; not that damned half-awake resting period he usually lapsed into where his thoughts would always somehow be just barely pricking at his conscience.

And Emperor knew he deserved some genuine rest for once.

**0-0-0 **

_ How in the Warp does she keep getting in here? _Pondered Mortis tiredly as he swung the oaken door to his room open, greeted by warm candlelight and more chains of those damn bronze trinkets. They jingled, giggling with juvenile glee as he slammed the door the shut.

He strode over to the nearest set, infesting his mostly emptied weapon rack like a nest of filthy weeds.

Serana must have gotten back much earlier than he had expected if she had the time to string the infernal decorations up in such tight and impossibly tangled knots; it could take hours to remove every one from his room. Yet another problem for tomorrow.

He checked around his quarters, grimly assessing the extent of the damage the vampire had done to his room. At the very least she had taken the time to light all of the candles though, saved him the trouble of having to do so himself before performing his evening prayers.

_Oh for the love of… _

There, nesting on the small table beside his stone cot was a small stack of books, the telltale crinkled and folded parchment of another one of Serana's notes lying over top of them. She had taken the liberty of setting down just a few (more like a dozen) candles around it, _just in case _the bold multicolored book spines didn't catch his attention.

He had almost forgotten to bring up the 'possessed tome' to Isran- but that could wait until tomorrow.

He sighed a heavy sigh, wondering just how much longer the day would last as he gently plucked the note off of the table.

_I figured that little book collection of yours wouldn't last you too much longer, so I picked up a few more at the Riften market for you. Pretty decent bargain, they seem to be in relatively good shape, but they weren't cheap by any means- I'd appreciate if you at least took a glance at them before casting it to the firepit. _

_ Wish I could've gave them to you personally but I've got my hands full- Mother has an absolutely dreadful sense of fashion. _

The next few lines were smudged over with ink, as though she had meant to add something but hastily decided against it at the last moment.

The brief message was concluded with yet another one of those smiling faces she seemed to be so very fond of.

Mortis glared at the stack of books on the table, the mere thought that a number of the volumes were doubtlessly as obscene as the text he had discovered that morning brutally violating his very spirit. He took a quick survey of the pile, concluding that there could not have been any less than a dozen of the things- it'd take at least an hour to evaluate them.

_Feth it. _

He plucked one of the nearby candles from its perch, carrying it over to the worn altar where he always knelt for prayer.

The books, like everything else, were a problem he could deal with the next day. 


End file.
